She slaps her laptop closed, stretching out her arms and twisting her back. She gets up from the chair she’s been sitting in all afternoon and heads downstairs.
The electric fan whirs in the living room. The glass curtains hang silently in the stillness of just-before-dusk, and the creamy light of golden hour filters through, casting the living room in mismatched shapes of rich orange. She claps her hands, an invitation.
The spritely sheepdog runs in from where he’s been sniffing around in the garden. He comes up to her, jumping on the pads of his paws, tennis ball in mouth. She laughs, ruffling up his mottled brown-and-white fur. She steps out into the sunshine, armed with a plastic bag for emergencies. She finally wrestles the ball from his grasp after having to chase him all over the driveway. She looks both ways before hurling the neon green ball as far as she can.
He breaks off into a run and streaks after it like a comet.
She clicks her pen, leaning against the back of her chair. She rotates her neck, wincing at the stiffness. She gets up and heads downstairs.
The aircon is on, blowing cool air into the empty house. She pauses on the last step, twisting around to giver he back one last satisfying pop. She looks underneath tables and around sofas. She claps her hands.
The sheepdog comes trotting up to her from where he’s been napping in the corner. His stub of a tail is wagging so hard it’s causing the rest of him to vibrate. She strokes his head, scratching that one good spot just behind the ears that makes him purr like a kitten. She laughs, and he bounds ahead of her to the door.
She picks up his tennis ball and rips out a plastic bag for good measure. She walks out onto the driveway, looking both ways before tossing the ball just far enough for him to run. He snaps at it a few times before finally catching it. He runs back to her, shaking his head and taunting her to catch up with him.
She looks out at the window and see pearlescent clouds swimming in the richest blue sky she’s ever seen. It’s about time she and the dog take their walk. She turns back to the show she’s been watching and tells herself, “What’s a one-day break?”
She sits on an unfamiliar couch. The broken leather bites into the fabric of her pants making her itch all over; still, she doesn’t move an inch.
The sounds of cats and dogs in cages drown out her thoughts. The smell of disinfectant wraps around her is a painful reminder that keeps her tethered to the motley brown-and-white sheepdog lying on the metal table in the room across from her.
She catches glimpses through the door—wires and tubes, scalpels and a handful of his ruffled fur.
When he comes home the next day, she wraps her arms around his neck and cries when nobody is around. He sits still and lets her tears run into his fur. When she pulls away he nuzzles his head firmly under her arm. She scratches his ears, and her purrs with pleasure. She strokes his caramel-brown muzzle, streaked with white. She kisses his nose and he gives her a slobbery one in return.
She gets up from where she’s been lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She paces downstairs softly. The electric fan is whirring in its corner, blowing air through the house. The glass curtains move with the breeze. She claps her hands. He does not come.
She looks by the door and sees him curled up against it as if he’s cold. His bleary eyes open as she approaches, and the little stump of his tail wags and makes his whole body vibrate.
She helps him stand up and leads him outside into the soft afternoon light. She walks by his side, holding him up every few paces and waiting as he buries his nose in something. She stands and looks up at the sky so he cannot sense her crying. Still, he nudges her hand carrying the tennis ball. She looks down at it in surprise. Force of habit.
She sits on the grass, and he gingerly sits down next to her. His bones are creaking and popping with every move. She runs hands through his fading brown-and-white fur. She lifts his head into her lap and traces the spots on his nose. She scratches his ears, and his head leans into her hand even if he does not purr anymore. She looks into his eyes and sees the gray clouds that have rolled in one day and have not left.
She passes the tennis ball in front of his nose. He pokes his snout at it, then opens his mouth ever so slightly as if to grab it. Then he drops his head back into her lap and lets out a sigh.
“It’s okay, buddy,” she says, stroking his fur. “What’s a one-day break?”
She gets up from her chair and sends her laptop to sleep. She stretches her arms out and sees the sky. Wind is blowing branches of trees and the leaves are singing in chorus. She smiles to herself in the golden sun.
She makes her way downstairs. The electric fan is off and faces the floor. The windows are all open, letting in the breeze. The glass curtains flutter like angel wings.
She looks around the house, looking under tables and around sofas. Even if she does not find what she looks for, she smiles to herself. He’s still here, even if she cannot see him.
Behind closed eyes she can see him bounding up to her every single time. The little, stubby-legged puppy with puffed fur and blue eyes. The lanky adolescent with long, thick, fur and slightly awkward limbs. The well-groomed adult with a proud air. The slightly-rounded dog with a speckled white muzzle. The sleepy, happy elder with faded patterns on his mottled brown-and-white fur. All of them greet her with a wagging stub of a tail.
